


nothing less

by creepbat



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:16:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3157409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepbat/pseuds/creepbat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And that was how Mike had spent the better part of his night sponging up blood to the background noise of James M. McGill, Esq. loudly losing his supper in a dry patch of shrubbery.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing less

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NessaSan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NessaSan/gifts).



They wait for the sirens.

In the  _cantina_ -like dive bar in the outskirts of the city, they both hunch over a table, trying to look inconspicuous. Just two gentlemen out for a drink the week before Christmas. The place is theirs, save for a few bleary-eyed regulars stationed at the counter. Mike's knee is acting up and he puts his hand on it, trying to massage out the ache. Even if he thought it was a smart idea, which it isn't, he isn't as young as he used to be- wouldn't be able to outrun the police if they burst through the door at any moment. He watches the entrance warily, knowing that if that were to happen, the only time he'd be seeing his granddaughter would be the monthly visitation at the state penitentiary. 

McGill jumps in his seat at the sound of a bottle breaking from outside, jerking their table, sloshing their drinks. Mike shoots him a hard look: _get a grip_. He resents it; dealing with this clown when he should be at his daughter's house watching _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ with Kaylee. He supposes that this situation also qualifies as another kind of kid-sitting.  _Baby's First Homicide._

Mike takes a sip of whiskey, looking at then blinking Christmas lights strewn along the smudged windows, flashing colored bulbs against the glass. He savors the burn in his throat.

"I wouldn't look if I were you," Mike warned him, stuffing the handgun in his waistband. The former client-turned-business associate's skull had caved in, like a rotted pumpkin that'd been kicked in by someone's boot; wet, stringy gray and pink chunks coagulated on splintered bone.

Five guesses who'd decided to waltz on over and take a look after being untied. And that was how Mike had spent the better part of his night sponging up blood to the background noise of James M. McGill, Esq. loudly losing his supper in a dry patch of shrubbery. It'd been a while since Mike had found himself in this type of situation. He'd almost forgotten how heavy the air tends to feel, around a body- how blood looks black in the dark.  

McGill hangs the jacket of his ill-fitting suit on the back of his chair, sweating through his shirt- underneath his arms. Idly, he rubs feeling back into his wrists, the skin around his mouth raw and irritated from the duct tape. Mike made him wash off his face in the bathroom but he still looks like shit run over twice. Shaken, but relatively unharmed.

With every passing second it becomes more and more likely that no one heard the shot, and Mike feels some of the tension slide from his shoulders. More than likely it's safe to move out. Mike dragged them here because having the police seeing his car speeding away from a body in the desert was last on the list of things he wants. And there's no better tactic than hiding in plain sight.

"Shouldn't we be drinking something a little more festive?" Jimmy pipes up, clearly uneasy with sitting in silence for too long. "You like peppermint schnapps?" 

"I know it's shocking, but I'm not really in the holiday mood," Mike deadpans.

When they first met, the dollar signs in the lawyer's eyes were clear as day. And a dull warning prickled in Mike, that old alarm. As a cop he'd seen the same look in men before, that hunger, and he's wary of it; how it swallows up some people. It sure as hell never means anything good. He could tell instantly that the lawyer's more trouble than he's worth.

Judging by tonight, it seems like someone else had reached a similar conclusion.

Something had told Mike to tail him. He knew it wasn't the smart thing to do- that would be going home and forgetting he ever met the guy. But he had, and he'd seen someone's silhouette against headlights, crouched over another man that was hog-tied and breathing in dirt, taunting him- even from a distance that was clear- and for some unknown reason the word fairness had come to him, and Mike's finger pulled the trigger.

So much for living out the simple life of a parking attendant. The pay wasn't great but it was peaceful, and as a retired cop with a history, Mike had been looking forward to a little peace. For him, there's no pleasure in taking a life. When he's done it, it's for the fact that it had been something that had to be done, and Mike was good at it.

"Your friend chose a prime location to dump a body, at least," Mike starts as they head towards his car, ignoring the way the last remaining color drains from Jimmy's face. "It could take a while before they find him. I probably don't need to say this but I want so make sure we're clear here: shred everything."

"No kidding." McGill picks at his upper lip, scheming. "And you'll be keeping tabs on his partner, right? We don't want another repeat of tonight-" 

"I'll watch his house, follow him to the grocery store. If he takes a shit, I'll know about it," Mike says, exasperated. "Would that be enough for you?"

"That last part sounds a little creepy, but however you get your jollies off is fine with me."

"I could leave you here. There's always hitchhiking."

"Yeah well I don't plan on spending the holidays as a new lampshade for Buffalo Bill, okay?" There's an underlying note of hysteria to the other man's voice that reminds Mike of an insect buzzing around your ear. "Let's just go already."

McGill slides into the passenger seat before Mike can stop him and pops a Vicodin, his eyes shut, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His body is angled away from him and he clutches his briefcase almost like a security blanket. Mike doesn't have a huge reserve of patience for wounded pride and he sighs when Jimmy doesn't meet his eyes, as he repeats his home address on Juan Tabo, resigned and tired. When they reach it he feels Jimmy stiffen defensively beside him, bracing himself, almost as if he's daring Mike to say something.

It's a sinkhole apartment complex. The kind of place where you go to stick a gun in your mouth and check out early. A station wagon sits on busted shocks, aluminum foil flattened against one of the windows; definitely no place for a hot-shot lawyer. And then for Mike, everything, from the brassy act to the measly three dollars he can't seem to part with, clicks into place.

He doesn't say a word.

"Hey so," McGill begins, words awkward and stilted. "He could've just been trying to scare me, who knows what he was gonna do." They both do. "But thanks. Y'know for…" He trails off, fidgeting slightly in his seat.

"I was protecting my interests, don't look into it too much." Mike waits for him to get out of the car, but he doesn't move. Someone's car alarm goes off down the street. A dog barks itself hoarse and no one tries to stop it. 

"This kind of thing wasn't supposed to happen," Jimmy says quietly, like he's talking more to himself than to Mike. The left side of his face is lit up yellow from the light post. 

"You'll feel better about it in the morning," Mike lies. He wants to go home. "Get some sleep."

Jimmy nods after a second, his mouth pressed together in a thin line, like he knows he's getting told to fuck off but is too tired to do anything about it. Mike can't tell for sure. He watches him walk inside and thinks that if he isn't okay now, he will be sooner or later.

Mike knows, you get there eventually.


End file.
